On getting old...

One of the surest signs of getting old is an irrational fear of teenagers. I have to admit, I'm quickly falling into this category. I see them in their hordes, and all I can think of is that scene from The Birds, when all the birds are gathering on the jungle gym, waiting to peck at the little kids as soon as they leave the school.

My most recent Birds moment happened recently. We had run out of toilet paper, and rather than drive to the store I decided to take John (who has finally outgrown his phobia of strollers and grocery stores) for a walk to pick some up. Along the way is Gage Park, which is a manicured park filled with walking trails and fountains. The walk there was pleasant. John dozed and other parents and I with strollers all smiled as we passed each other on the trails. He smiled and gurgled all through the store, to the delight of the strange old ladies who invariably stop to babble nonsense to him.

I made my way to the toilet paper isle, stashed an embarrassingly bright yellow jumbo pack under the stroller, checked out, and made my way back home through the park. By this time, it was about 4:30, and starting to get dark. But surely, I thought, even hoodlums have to eat dinner. They won't be out until 7 or so. Oh, how wrong I was. As I rounded the bend, and came through the clearing to the fountain, there they were. Teenage hoodlums. Skateboards, cigarettes, and scantily clad groupies, all lounging and screaming obscenities around the fountain. It felt like there must have been 50 of them. OK, there were only about 10, but it felt like a mob to me.

What to do, what to do. I wanted to turn around, but they had already spotted me. What felt like 100 pairs of eyes were locked on me. My heart leaped into my throat. You see all these news reports these days about teenager attacks. Or are those pitbull attacks? Same thing, really. And there were so many of them, like killer bees. If they decided to attack, there wasn't a whole lot I could do about it. What if they hurt me, leaving John alone and defenseless? What if they took John!? What if they took my jumbo pack of toilet paper!!??

With no choice, I marched ahead through the smoky haze, their eyes piercing into me. 'Where are their mothers?' I thought to myself. I felt so old at that moment. I think I got a wrinkle. John, oblivious to the danger he was in, just kept gurgling.

As I passed through the crowd, they all fell eerily silent and stared. A couple of the larger boys took a step closer to me. 'This is it.' I thought, frantically looking for witnesses - anyone who might hear me scream during the inevitable attack. I thought about what I would do with John if they closed in - would I be able to push his stroller away far and fast enough to be saved? I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I finally reached the opposite path unscathed, even though I knew they were all still watching me in silence.

Then one of the sk8r boys said to his friends, with what can only be described as boyish glee, "Dude! That baby looked at me! That was so cool!"

Suddenly, I felt not just very old, but very stupid as well.

Although that being said, I won't be wandering into any more crowds of screaming, smoking teens anytime soon.

Archive photo of the day!

naptime

Weight update

At two months, John was 14 pounds, 2 ounces, and 61 cm long. And of course, cute as a button. This was also the first day he laughed out loud! We were at the doctor's office, and he was practicing standing on my lap. His hips were flailing, and I guess it felt pretty funny!

Panic is setting in - the groceries are starting to dwindle. It looks like John and I will have to make another trip to..da da dummm...the Supermarket.

Groceries have always been a dreaded chore for me. With a baby, it's a nightmare. John hates it just as much as me, but he's the only one allowed to scream. We've only had one positive grocery experience. I fed him so much just before leaving the house that he couldn't wake up if he tried. I spent the whole time wiping spit-up from his groggy face, between the oohs and aahhs of passers-by. Unfortunately, he hasn't fallen for that trick since.

Our first trip was the worst. He was just a week old, and I thought he'd find riding around in the grocery cart fun. Yeah. Right. He popped awake the second we got through the door, and didn't stop crying until we were back in the parking lot. At first he looked stunned. Then he whipped his head back and forth, with this panicked look, as colourful packages passed by, kids pointed, a young couple probed me with questions, and old ladies stuck their heads in my cart for a better look. The lights, the noise, the poeople, it was all a little too much, and he went into a fit. He was screaming so hard, he couldn't breathe. He pulled at his cheeks in anguish. It was torturous to watch. Needless to say, the kids stopped pointing, the old ladies backed off, and I'm sure that young cople started having some second thoughts.

I had no idea what to do, so I just ignored the poor little guy, and shopped as fast as possible. He slept the whole way home, but it was small comfort. In my haste, I had forgotten half the things I needed, so I had to go back.Too embarrassd to return to the same store just days later, I decided to finish the shopping somewhere new. I took John for a little drive before we arrived, so he would doze off.

All was well until the pet food isle, when he woke up screaming. However, rather than zoom for the check-out with screaming baby in tow, I picked him up to comfort him. It worked like a charm. Instead of pitying glances, I got approving looks from passers-by. I thought I had conquered the supermarket fussies. That is, until we got to the freezer department, where he kicked up again. Except this time when I picked him up, I noticed a stream of watery, mustardy poo running down his leg, towards my shirt. I quickly put him back down, so the nearby stock-boy wouldn't notice, and mopped as much of the mess as I could with a spare blanket.

What to do? Stranded in public with a screaming baby and a poopy diaper, I headed for the washroom. But once I got there, I had a dilema. I couldn't get his seat out of the cart. It was wedged in with food. What was I to do? Do I take the whole cart into the bathroom, and be accused of stealing, or do I leave my cart, with very expensive and essential car seat in public view? In retrospect, I should have done the latter - who's going to steal a car seat from the grocry store, especially when they'd have to unload the cart to get to it? In reality, I decided to just high-tail it through the rest of my list, and get the heck out of there ASAP, poopy diaper and all.

By the time I got to the check-out, John was in a frenzy. I felt like the worst mom in the world for leaving him in there, so I took a clean blanket, carefully wrapped it around his waist to cover the oozing poo, and picked him up. It was only supposed to be for a minute, to calm him down. But as I was about to put him down, my hand started to feel warm. And wet. And sticky. A quick peek, and sure enough, his poop had leaked right through the blanket and onto my hand. By this time, he was attracting a crowd of people all offering their own theory of why he was fussy. He's tired, said one. He's cold, said another. He's just not a shopper, offered a third. Putting him down would have exposed the dirty truth, so I just smiled, nodded and kept my hand firmly wedged over the oozing poo, while I tried to unload my groceries with my one free hand. The other moms took such pity on me, they unloaded my groceries onto the belt for me. It was so embarrassing. John screamed all the way to the exit, and all the way through the parking lot, with my hand in his poo.

The second his seat clicked into the car? Sound asleep. Cheeky kid.

I was so embarrassed, I had to go to another store the next time. By the time I left there, I had an entourage of clerks and store managers, telling me in baby-talk why my baby was so upset. The one man thought he was teething. At a month old. I think it was them following us around. The second we were back in the car? Fast asleep.

I'm looking for a new store now. I'm starting to run out of options. I'm thinking Grocery Gateway is the way to go.

Weight update

At one month, John was 11 pounds, 8 ounces, 57 cm. long, and still the cutest baby around.

I don't believe John is already three weeks old! This is going by way too fast. He's sleeping well at night, as long as he can sleep with mom and dad - he'll happily gurgle and doze for a four hour stretch. Not so while he's in his crib, but we're working to break the big-bed habit.

He can already creep - though he needs a little help some days, and can hold his head straight up for several seconds without help. He had his first really big gummy grin a few days ago - Mike was holding him up in a sitting position - I guess he liked what he was able to see from way up there! He says a-boo (a combinaton of vowels and consenants is the next stage in language development), but Mike doesn't belive me, because only I've heard it. But he's said it about five times already. We let him listen to the radio a lot - he likes the oldies station - so he hears talking all the time. So he's growing up pretty fast. I just wish he would stay this teeny!

In the beginning......

Our first picture of John - about a week old

I'm writing this in retrospect, which is why it's legible. The hormones have faded. I've rediscovered sleep. Life is good again.
I'll spare you the gory details of John's birth. It was induced, and it was 22 hours long. We went in at 7 p.m., after being up all day, and most of the night before, and he was born at 4:55 p.m. the next day. I don't need to write down any more. If you want to know, just ask - it has been permenantly burned in my mind. Always there, to recount at birthdays, first dates, weddings, etc... But if you hope to have kids one day, don't ask. Just one word from the wise - get the epidural, and don't let a resident put it in! You don't need to know the pure hell of the first two weeks, either. It was a dark and hormonal time. I apologize to all who recieved a hormonal rant in their e-mail in-box in those first bleak, sleep-deprived days. It was all a blur, so it hasn't been burned in my memory quite as deeply as the birth itself, which is a good thing for anyone hoping we'll have another. All I remember was bursting into tears every evening, as the realization hit that even though I was exhausted, and everyone else was getting ready for bed, I was going to be up all night...and all the next day...and the night after that....with no end in sight. Thankfully, those days are long gone as I write this four months later!
However, just to keep a running record of John's growth, he was 8 pounds, 3 ounzes, 50 cm long at birth, and happened to be the cutest baby in the whole place. That's not biased at all - he really was.